


because i love you

by mariewinter



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: F/F, spoilers probably, that One Scene in 3x06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 12:17:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8401387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariewinter/pseuds/mariewinter
Summary: A part of her never knows what to expect, with Annalise.
Even after all this time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> as usual -- written quickly, posted hastily, not beta-read, love my gays

Bonnie has never said those three words out loud and meant them so much, with all of her heart and soul; when she says them, it's simultaneously like a weight lifts off her shoulders and then settles right back down on her chest, constricting her air intake and pressing down on her heart. For a moment she thinks or hopes that Annalise will get up and slap her, or say those words back, or do anything at all but stare at her, because anything would be better than this.

Better than this silence.

When Annalise finally does react, it's not what Bonnie wants, not the kind of reaction she desires. But it's something, and that's better than nothing at all. Now, at least, she knows.

(She has always known, but she did not expect it to be a surprise when it finally came, and she certainly didn't expect it to hurt.)

 

—

 

“Bonnie,” Annalise calls, three days later; as always whenever she's called, Bonnie stops right in her tracks and turns around. She isn't sure what she expects. Those words are not the rough, commanding bark of a woman who wants her to do something for her. Those words are not the taut, irritable words of a woman who wants to lash her verbally and send her home feeling like she's been hit by a two-ton truck of emotion.

Those words are not even the rare, gentle offering of a woman who wants her to sit and to drink and to be quiet throughout the night they spend together in stillness.

They are, instead, indescribable. And she does not know what to expect.

(A part of her never knows what to expect, with Annalise.

Even after all this time.)

Bonnie clears her throat once the silence has stretched out before them into something unimaginably long and uncomfortable. “Yes?”

“Come here.”

Annalise's voice is smooth, careful, like she's planning something, or like she wants something, or like she wants to say something more than she is saying. It is all too vague. Bonnie doesn't know what's happening, doesn't know where she stands. So, instead, she obeys, and goes to stand in front of Annalise, close enough that she could reach out and touch her if she wanted.

She wants.

She doesn't reach.

Annalise watches her for a while, breathing in and out, and Bonnie matches her own breathing to that of hers, unconsciously; a slow, steady breath in, and then a slow, steady breath out. She cannot read the look on Annalise's face. She cannot read anything about this situation.

“I love you too,” Annalise says.

She has said it before. But lightly; always lightly, always in passing, in broad daylight, as a joke, as an exaggeration. Not here, never here, never deep and dark and true like that, never serious.

Bonnie opens her mouth, but before she can stammer something out, something that might have come out like an abundance of gratitude and affection or an abundance of confusion and pain, Annalise waves her off.

“Go home,” she says.

Bonnie turns around and she stumbles out of the room like a newborn calf who hasn't learned to use its legs properly yet, or perhaps she walks in a very careful, even line, her strides never faltering. But in the morning, she cannot remember anything but those words.

In the morning, she brings Annalise a cup of coffee, and files, and information, and together they sit and do not talk so much as they share that information through a silent passing of papers from one set of hands to the other.

She often looks up and finds Annalise's eyes on her face, and they never dart away like she's ashamed of being caught staring. They linger, instead.

For a moment last night and for a moment this morning, Bonnie had thought it to be a dream, those words said. She had forgotten all about it when she'd woken up, and it wasn't until she was in the shower did she realize it.

She'd stepped out, wet skin meeting cold air, and thought, _I dreamt that._

She drove to Annalise's house and thought, _I dreamt that._

Now, she is here. And she thinks, _it was real,_ and the look in Annalise's eyes confirm it.

When she's passed a file, their fingers brush, and Bonnie leans forward, leans into it, prolongs the contact just long enough for it to be clear that it is not accidental.

Annalise stands, movements deliberate, and she leans over the desk, and she kisses her.

It is warm and quiet, and chaste, and Annalise sits back down without so much as a single word.

Bonnie doesn't let herself touch her lips until she's in the bathroom, later, staring at herself in the mirror as though looking for any trace of Annalise's lipstick left behind on her mouth.

There's nothing, of course.

(It feels like there is.)

_I love you too, Annalise says, and Bonnie smiles._


End file.
